Almost
by Dunas Priest
Summary: Cutler Beckett is dead...almost. The Captain of the Flying Dutchman intends to use his almost-death as vengeance for his previous sins against both Elizabeth and the world in general... by forcing him to go on a journey with none other than Jack Sparrow.


**A/N:** First things first, I swear have not ditched _**Freedom and Justice**_. I swear I'm working on it still; it's just that I'm slow and lazy... so for now, just enjoy this more whimsical story. It's told in first person, which for me usually means more whimsical-ness. It's Beckett-centric, of course, but also features Jack; maybe even a bit of Will and Elizabeth. Please note that in this story, I am considering _The Price of Freedom_, AC Crispin's book, as canon. Thank you!

Also, I'm open to suggestions on this; I'll take any suggestion as to the plot, the pairings I should use, et cetera! So, please enjoy, and make sure to drop a review! (:

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean. Neither do I own the lovely characters presented herein. Except maybe any OFCs.

**Warnings:** Some language, and stuff. Nothing really.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

**Why.**

I am stuck in a dinghy with the one man I hate most.

Wonderful.

'Captain' Jack Sparrow smiles at me stupidly as he maneuvers the bucket quickly, dumping out the water plaguing our rapidly-sinking, pathetic excuse for a ship. I can already feel the seawater entering my expensive leather boots.

"Funny how we end up in these kinds of situations, eh, Cutler?" he says comically, dumping out more of the water with relative ease, as if used to such motions.

"It's 'Lord Beckett' for you, Mr. Sparrow," I respond placidly. "Any... _friendly_ terms we might have had between each other were, as you might recall, revoked when you betrayed me."

He doesn't even shoot me a second glance as he continues to scoop out water. "You know," he begins to say as he grabs a rum bottle with his free hand from the compartment under his bench, "I _love_ parties! Even better when there's two people instead of one, eh? How about when we get to Tortuga, we have a drinking game, do some gambling, grab some wenches, and—"

"Jack," I cut in, exasperated. "You do realize who you are speaking to?"

He grins at me as he brings the rum bottle up to his mouth, grasping the cork between his teeth. In one quick, skilled movement, he unplugs the cork, and spits it out into the ocean. Then he takes a swig from the bottle as he resumes scooping out water with the bucket.

This is not getting anywhere.

"Jack," I say, but he still isn't quite listening to me. "That's not going to solve anything. We need to locate the source of the leak, and plug it."

He gives me a stare and then continues scooping, this time with more fervor. "We're almost at Tortuga anyway," Jack replies, his voice slightly strained, filling it with masculine tenor. "This boat is unsalvageable and, besides, what do we have to plug it with? Your boots?" He pauses, waiting for my reply. I make none. "I didn't think so!" He exclaims.

Scoffing, I cross my arms over my chest and settle back down, annoyed. I can't help but wonder how it is that I got myself into this decidedly _sticky_ situation...

* * *

><p>My body had hit the water.<p>

It was cold, very cold. The blue surrounded me, soothing the burn wounds from the explosion that had occurred when the powder magazine on the HMS _Endeavour_ ignited. But I knew that it wasn't enough to save me. I was a dead man.

Lord Cutler Beckett, died at sea. One among many that were slaughtered by loathsome pirates on the HMS _Endeavour_.

(What a jolly good time.)

I didn't have long before the coldness became too much to bear for my feeble body. The darkness enclosed slowly, hazing my mind. I realized: _Is this what death feels like?_ I fell unconscious, then, or perhaps I died—I can't be sure.

But when light came back again, I was in the water, surfaced. Somehow. I did not bother to survey my own condition; I was dead, wasn't I? Yet something seemed off... surely I wasn't a ghost, but yet neither was I in any sort of afterlife...

And then I realized that there was a ship fast approaching. It advanced slowly and almost majestically, and I couldn't help but think that it was coursed directly for _me_ in specific. Then a cold dread filled me as I suddenly realized just what, exactly, that ship was...

A massive hull, dotted in old barnacles, drew closer as its pointed bow sliced through the turbulent waves. Sails covered in mats of seaweed floundered about in the salty breeze. The crew upon the deck, laboring with difficulty, noticed me—much to my dismay.

And, most importantly, standing at the hull, proud and erect, was none other than William Turner, now Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_.

Oh, _bollocks_.

They dragged me onto deck with taut ropes and shouted commands. Despite my innermost desire to flee, I made no struggle as they shoved me up onto the captain's helm, where Will Turner stood, watching like a hawk. He gazed down at me, his decidedly tall height allowing him to tower over me. Much to my annoyance, he made no effort for courtesy and did not offer me a beverage for my rather parched throat.

(How ironic that a man who sails upon water is often thirstier than a man with his feet firmly planted on fertile earth.)

Turner regarded me with a forced complacent stare. His endeavor to seem calm was rather pointless, though, as I was well aware that he was boiling in rage towards me, considering the sort of deeds I'd committed since my arrival at Port Royal.

(I, however, care little for Turner's opinions, and I have no need to regret my past decisions. And why should I? I acted lawfully and legally, just as a Lord should.)

"Cutler Beckett," he commented shortly, lifting his chin to look down upon me, although he already _was_ without that sort of silly gesture.

"It's Lord, actually," I reminded him reflexively.

"No dead man is a lord, if only he is a lord of himself," Turner replied, a bit too intelligently for his normally dumb, ineloquent tongue. "Yet even on this ship, a man does not rule himself were he deserving of just oppression."

I tried not to smile at his stupidity, but the smug expression emerged regardless. Placing my hands behind my back and knotting my fingers together, I responded calmly and almost haughtily, "So it may seem, Mr. Turner. Since it appears that you so desire speaking with phrases which I'm quite sure that even _you_ do not comprehend, then answer me this: Is this the _Flying Dutchman_, and am I truly dead?" Despite my pompous manner, deep inside there was a segment of me which feared death... though how could I? I cannot be dead.

Jack Sparrow could _not_ have killed me. It is simply just... not possible.

Turner's eyes scanned me up and down, as though looking at me enough would cause me to break down and weep. Then, finally, after a long pause, he said, "Yes, this is the _Flying Dutchman_. And no. You're not dead. Not exactly, anyways."

"Then what term, clever Captain Turner, would one best use to describe my current state of existence?" I inquired, still feeling a bit smug, even moreso now that I knew that I was not dead.

"...Almost," Turner answered after a brief period of hesitance. "_Almost_ dead. But... not quite."

This piqued my interest. I tilted my head just the slightest, giving him the best intrigued look I could, as if urging him to divulge more delectable information.

"You see," Turner continued, "..._Lord_... Beckett. My job as the Captain of the Flying Dutchman is to—"

"—To ferry the souls of those who passed at sea," I interrupted him swiftly, finishing off his statement before he knew it. He blinked at me as I added brusquely, "Yes, I knew this heretofore and still. In case you have forgotten already, I am the very one who employed Davy Jones to work as my menial little mercenary, even though it may have been forced through the threatening of his very life." I paused briefly, letting that sink into his dense cranium, before adding, "So, if you will spare me the elementary details..." My voice trailed off as I allowed him to fill in the blank without me having to waste my breath.

Turner's brows scrunched together before he finally nodded. Perhaps he was not as dull as I'd imagined him to be.

(In reality, he is quite the astute fellow, yet at times he can display a sort of thick-headed bravery that leads one and many to believe that he is a fool. After all, the line between bravery and stupidity is a fine one, one that is impossible to determine without knowing a man's soul, essence and exterior.)

"Right, then," he breathed. "Then I shall get to the point."

I nodded, pleased to see that he was acquiescing to my request.

"You are on the journey towards the afterlife. Therefore, you are not alive, but nor are you completely dead," Turner finished. "In other words, you are on the one-way trip to death. And you will go peacefully."

I suddenly feel very, very cold.

"I don't suppose that there is any method of going back," I said after a drawn-out silence.

A hesitation. Turner seemed to be at odds with himself before he finally said slowly, "...There _is_ a way. But you may not like it, Lord Beckett."

* * *

><p>...Just excellent. So perhaps it was by my own devices that I ended up on this godforsaken trip with Jack Sparrow, but I find myself regretting it <em>now<em>. Surely, before, I had no idea just how agonizing it would be to spend time with this drunken, raving maniac.

"Ah! Look! Tortuga!" Jack says excitedly like a toddler on Christmastide. He gestures to the approaching land mass, with a port town lying on it. "Lovely, isn't it?"

I bury my face in my hands, not sure if I want to be shamed by being seen there. "Jack," I say, trying not to sound too desperate, "must we _really_ recruit a crew at such an unlawful place like Tortuga? Surely there are other, better locations..."

He gives me an incredulous glance. "Come on, Cutler. You're just starting to live for real now and you won't even pay Tortuga a visit?" He stops scooping out water as we draw nearer, knowing that eventually he won't even need to use that dinghy anymore.

"To remind you," I respond acidly, "I am _almost_ dead—"

"—Which, _consequens_, means that you are still living," Jack finishes matter-of-factly, throwing in a random Latin phrase as well, for good measure.

I become quiet, not responding; too tired to complain any further. Though it pains me greatly to have to be seen at Tortuga, it is better than being dead... isn't it?

The dinghy comes to a stop at the port. Sparrow steps off it, then holds out a hand to help me out. Ignoring him, I climb out on my own, straightening up and dusting myself off. I decide to worry about my boots and britches later.

Taking a deep breath, I look about at the sight before me that is Tortuga.

An incessant fiddle is playing in the background, a group of drunken men desperately trying to keep up with the tunes in their mind. Pigs mill about in the town, filling it up with their filth and mud as people around them bask on the cobblestone streets. Unshaven, shaken men with their hair unkempt run about, drinking endless storages of rum or ravishing themselves with women in the public. Groups of people, both bastards and wenches, enter and exit the plentiful amount of taverns and bars, somewhat sober as they go in, completely drunk as they stumble out.

Jack Sparrow turns to me, smirking. He waves out his arms, as if gesturing towards the disgusting scene before us. "Well? What do you think?"

"It's repulsing," I reply wearily. "Let us finish our business posthaste, please."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself," he mutters, probably done with his pathetic attempts to please me, for whatever hellish reason. I know not why he's even trying. There is no way that he can get me to even _like_ him anymore.

Jack struts into one of the nearby pubs. I follow him with dismay, trying to appear discreet and small, so that no one may notice me. Standing in the corner, leaning against the wall, I wait patiently for Jack to finish his business as he heads deeper into the pub.

To my chagrin, it's not long before someone recognizes me.

At first, the stubbly pirate gives me an incredulous stare of disbelief. Then, he grins as he realizes that I am indeed who I am, to which he calls over his group of drunken comrades. Stepping over, they proceed to surround me.

(_Loathsome pirates. Loathsome pirates. Loathsome pirates._)

"Oi, if it isn't Cutler Beckett hisself 'ere!" the pirate exclaims, jabbing at me with his sheathed cutlass. "What brings you ta Tortuga, ya slimy git?"

Unnerved, I open my mouth to respond, but another pirate cuts in. "Mayhaps he's too ugly ta get hisself a wife, so he's come 'ere to get a wench er two."

My hands clench into fists. Staring darkly at the man, I reply in a controlled voice, "Contrary to your beliefs, I am not here for anything scandalous, be it as you may think. So, it would be preferable for both you and I if you merely omitted my presence."

The pirates exchange glances, chuckling. "Oh ho, there be some large words in there, sir. May'aps you've forgotten, but we be just humble pirates."

They move forward, closing around me. Despairing, I know there is nothing I can do; I have no weapon, I have no experience in hand-to-hand combat, and there is only one of me and many of them. The brutes grin as they realize that they have trapped me like a rat.

(_Loathsome pirates. Loathsome pirates. Loathsome pirates!_)

Then a pistol is suddenly fired. The pirates whip around, towards the source of the shot. Sparrow is standing there, looking strangely serious.

"Oi, hands off me second mate, will ya?" He demands, his voice filled with an undertone of power.

_Second mate? Since when was I Sparrow's "second mate"?_ I think to myself incredulously, but I'm not about to object to my life being saved.

The pirates laugh nervously, trying to appear in good humor. "Oh, if it isn't Sparrow hisself! Well, ah, we was just roughin' 'im up a bit..."

Jack struts over with that peculiar lopsided, topsy-turvy gait of his. I give him a stare.

He's turned so _strange_ over the years. I cannot fathom what happened to him... he never used to be so—

So—_pirate_?

"Mr. Beckett!" Sparrow yells, calling my attention back to the present. "What are you doing, slacking off in the corners like this, mate? You should be up in the front with me, recruiting able-bodied seamen!"

I open my mouth to say something, but Joshamee Gibbs, Sparrow's first mate, interjects. "Aye, Jack. We've got more than enough seamen now. I say we clear out of Tortuga before folk start realizing that we've got the _real_ Cutler Beckett here."

Sparrow nods and grabs me brusquely, then heads out of the tavern. A group of drunken sailors follows his path.

"You've acquired a ship somehow?" I inquire, grabbing his wrist and throwing his hand off of me.

Not looking at me, Sparrow responds, "Aye. I've not seen her yet, but she sounds like a worthy vessel to me. The _Gilded Galleon_'s her name."

"The _Gilded Galleon_, you say," I repeat slowly. Then, glancing at Sparrow, I inquire in a low voice, "What, pray tell, are you going to do once our unlawful crew finds out about my identity?"

He shrugs and replies, "Hopefully, that will never happen. I'll come up with something, though..."

I purse my lips, still unused to the kind way that Sparrow is treating me with. Surely he's planning something. Surely there must be a scheme that I am necessary for. Surely there is _something_ that causes him to feign altruism towards me. He seems so oddly _kosher_ with the notion of traveling with his almost-dead former enemy. His normalcy is simply just _not normal_.

But I say nothing. I shan't deny his hospitality until it is apparent that it will kill me. I rather like the dignified treatment, actually, despite how much it unnerves me.

"Jack," I begin to ay, "perhaps we ought to devise an alias for myself, as well as a back-story as to my origin? For there is no way that the name 'Cutler Beckett' will be approved of by _pirates_."

Jack's upper lip curls. "Well then _you_ come up with something," he says as we stroll onto the docks. "Unlike _you_, Mr. Beckett—"

"It's _Lord_ Beckett," I remind him again.

He continues on as if he hasn't heard me: "—I have responsibilities on the ship, as the captain."

Just as he says this, a man rushes over. "Cap'n Sparrow, sir! Joshua Black, at your service!" He yells as he does a mock-salute that is not even worthy of a newly-recruited soldier. "I'm the one you bought the ship from, remember?"

"You are?" Jack responds, clueless, and then smiles, looking jovial, adding, "Yes, I did! ...What about it?"

I look Mr. Black up and down. He has as wide smile, a young face, and a healthy tan. His eyes are a bright blue, and his golden brown hair has a cowlick in the front. I gauge him to be an able-bodied seaman of high positive morale and unbroken spirit. He will be good to keep around the dismal crew, I figure.

"Well, I was wondering if it would be alright that I'd be promoted to second mate, sir," Mr. Black says. "Seeing as I am the owner of the ship."

Jack and I exchange glances. "Mr... Mr... eh, Mr. _Bennett_ here is already second mate, mate. Sorry about that."

_Mr. Bennett?_ I think to myself, annoyed, but it's better than going by 'Beckett' and being caught.

"Mr. Bennett?" Joshua says as he turns to me, inquisitive. "I've never seen you around these parts. I'm Joshua Black."

"...Ah, yes, hello, Mr. Black. I'm..." my voice trails off.

"This is _Oscar_ Bennett!" Jack exclaims suddenly.

_Oscar?_ I whip around and face him, barely veiling disgust and surprise. _Why 'Oscar' of all blasted names?_

"Oh! Hello, then, Oscar," says Joshua, pleased. He holds out his hand to shake it. I look at it and manage to hide my repulse—but if I am to live among pirates, I must accept their dirty lifestyles. Nodding, I shake his hand and manage to muster up a pleasant smile. "I hope we can be on first-name basis," he adds.

_Wouldn't that be wonderful_, I think to myself glumly, but I simply say, "If we're to be crewmates, we ought to be friendly, shan't we?"

He stares at me and blinks, then nods. Heading back to the rest of the crew, Joshua begins to speak with them. Jack turns to me and says in a low voice, "Don't do anything _stupid_, alright?"

Lowering my own voice, I respond, "And what, pray tell, did I do wrong there? Mr. Black's—Joshua's reaction to my response seemed oddly... uncomfortable, dare I say."

Jack makes a face. "You've got this upper-class accent, mate. It's too obvious."

Sighing, I simply shake my head. "Enough chatter. Let us solve those issues later. For now, we should board our ship first."

Jack simply ignores me. I quickly reprimand myself, reminding myself that I am no longer the one giving orders and should act that way.

We slowly approach the _Gilded Galleon_. She's a large galleon, square-rigged, with great white sails and a polished hull of deep green. Her rails and trimmings are gilded gold, her namesake. Emblazoned along her sides is her name, in shining gold lettering. She looks to be a recently fixed-up ship, if not brand new.

Jack, impressed, gives a nod. "Mr. Black!" he shouts. "This is a _very_ nice boat you have here. I mean ship. Not boat."

Joshua smiles. "Pleased to be of service to you, Cap'n Sparrow."

The gangplank is lowered and we step aboard the deck. Even the floorboards stink of fresh paint and polish. As the crewmates begin walking around, preparing the ship and untying the anchor, Jack swivels to face me.

"As me second mate, you've got certain responsibilities on this ship, yes?" Jack mumbles in a low voice. I am pleased to see that he is exercising his previous mannerisms when around me, although we are both aware that he is a swashbuckling drunkard in reality.

_Why is he bothering to make me comfortable?_, I wonder, but do not question it aloud. Why should I interfere with the good treatment?

"Hopefully you are not implying that I must perform physical work, here," I reply in a low mutter.

Jack smiles. Leaning back, he throws his hands up into the air and responds, "C'mon, now, mate. We all know that you've no strength at all."

I purse my lips. "And surely I am not to sleep among the other pirates, am I?"

His grin widens.

I don't like that.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Okay. That's it so far. By the by, I saw _On Stranger Tides_ and really loved it. (I think it was almost as good as _At World's End_, and definitely better than _Dead Man's Chest_.) I finished reading _The Price of Freedom_ as well, so expect a lot of references from there. If you haven't read it, don't worry, I'll be explaining most of it... though it's a shame to spoil such a great book!

Anywho, enough from me. Please review! I love to hear feedback of any type, as well as your suggestions.


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